Pancakes and Tequila Don't Mix
by Ivory Tower
Summary: Join Frodo, the Metatron, and the Sheriff as Frodo sets out to establish the best brothel in Middle Earth! Chapt 2. Snape arrives to teach Frodo the finer art of writing tasteless tales. The Sheriff and the Metatron continue to bicker.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Pancakes and Tequila Don't Mix  
  
Author: Ivory Tower  
  
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the hobbits. I wish I owned the Sheriff, and the Metatron, and Snape, but I don't.  
  
  
Frodo Baggins was bored. He wanted some excitement and adventure in his predictable life. One day, at 1:45 p.m., Frodo decided to establish a whorehouse. Twas Pippin who had actually given him the idea, as Pippin's fondness for french whores was widely known. There would be french whores at Frodo's brothel, to be sure. There would be whores from all walks of life-a sort of international whorehouse! Hobbits, elfs, dwarfs, orcs-hey, people like variety.  
  
Excited with his idea, Frodo sat down at his desk and began to write. First, he needed a catchy name. "Frodo's Fun House". Nah, too ordinary. "Frodo's International House of Whores". Too fancy. This was hard. With a sigh, Frodo lay down his quill and propped his head on his hand. Sam came in from the garden for a drink of water.  
  
"What're you doing, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"I'm trying to think of a name for the brothel I'm starting, but it's not working out too well, Sam."  
  
"How about 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Middle Earth'?"  
  
"That is the most unoriginal title I've ever heard."  
  
"Well, all right then. Try this: 'Mister Frodo's House of Whores'."  
  
"Nah, too boring. This isn't working out at all."  
  
"Where are you going to find whores to fill the whorehouse, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this isn't such a good idea." A sudden knock on the door distracted them. "Tell whoever it is to go away, Sam. I'm too pre-occupied for company right now."  
  
"We don't want any! Go away," Samwise shouted out the window.  
  
"Oh, I think you'll want what I have out here in my...bag," said a smooth, deep, velvety male voice that made both Frodo and Sam tingle even though they were straight.  
  
Curiosity made Sam open the door to reveal a tall, thin man with long, unruly black hair, black eyes, a black beard, black clothes, and a black bag. His smile vaguely reminded Sam of Grima Wormtongue. Frodo stood next to Sam and stared up at this slightly creepy man.  
  
"Who are you," demanded Sam  
  
"Call me-the Sheriff."  
  
"The Sheriff? Of what," asked Frodo.  
  
"Of the very nearly legendary Start Your Own Whorehouse Home Business Kit." The Sheriff barged into the hobbit hole with a quick, graceful swoop. Sam eyed the greasy salesman with suspicion.  
  
"Are you related to Grima Wormtongue?"  
  
"No," replied the Sheriff smoothly, unzipping his large black duffle bag. "Nor am I related to Severus Snape, Hans Gruber, Dr. Lazarus, Alan Rickman, or that assholish Metatron!"  
  
Just then, a pillar of flame filled the room, nearly scaring the two hobbits witless.  
  
"Behold! I am the Metatron! The one true voice for Auntie Wickwacks Chocolate Pancake Mix!"  
  
"Mmmm....paaaancakes," drooled Frodo.  
  
"Choooocolaaaaate," moaned Sam as though he'd just experienced Nirvana.  
  
The Sheriff grabbed a bucket of water and doused the flaming pillar, revealing a dark-haired man in a drenched buisiness suit who looked an awful lot like the Sheriff, save he was clean cut.  
  
"Get out," snarled the Sheriff. "No one wants your bloody pancake mix!"  
  
"Do you actually think that you can help these little creatures run a successful whorehouse?"  
  
"That's why I'm here, you flaming fuck! Now, get out before I pluck your ass hairs out with my zircon encrusted tweezers."  
  
The Metatron raised his eyebrows, then smiled down at the two puzzled hobbits. "Never trust a man with zircon encrusted tweezers. You never know where he's used them."  
  
"Um, okay," said Frodo.  
  
"Now see here," yelled Samwise at the two feuding salesmen. "Mr. Frodo wants to start a whorehouse, and he wants that chocolate pancake mix. Can't you see the terrible burden he's under? You must help him!"  
  
The Sheriff smiled the most untrustworthy smile seen on this side of Middle Earth.   
  
"But of course," he said, slowly reached into his black bag, and produced...a bottle of tequila. "Fetch," he yelled, pitching the bottle out the window. The Metatron gasped and dove after it. "Now then," said the Sheriff, motioning the two hobbits over. "Every successful whorehouse needs-"  
  
The Metatron walked in through the hobbit door, drinking quite liberally. "Hey, thanks. This is my secret ingredient for Auntie Wickwack's Chocolate Pancakes."  
  
The Sheriff scowled an ugly scowl at the angel. "You lying bastard!" He fumbled in his black bag, and produced a pair of zircon encrusted tweezers. "Don't force me to use these!" The hobbits squeaked in terror, and scrambled away from the deranged sheriff.  
  
"You poor fool," spat the Metatron, beginning to feel the tequila. "God is on *my* side, and don't you forget it."  
  
"I wouldn't count on that," boomed a female voice.  
  
"Oh...go to hell," mumbled the Metatron, sloshing his tequila.  
  
Frodo suddenly got a truly brilliant idea. "We can have the biggest, best whorehouse in the whole world," he yelled, eyes gleaming with anticipation.  
  
The Metatron paused in getting the Sheriff in a headlock. "Come again?"  
  
"Women, pancakes, and tequila! What man can pass that up? I've even thought of a name: Tequila Sunrises, Pancakes, and Porn!"  
  
Sam nodded, impressed. "I'd go to your whorehouse, Mr. Frodo."  
  
The Metatron released the Sheriff. "So would I."  
  
The Sheriff took a swig of tequila and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Three words: Location. Location. Location. The place has to be easily accesible for a man with a rock hard, hard on to-"  
  
"They get the point, you sick bastard," interrupted the Metatron, grabbing for his bottle.  
  
Frodo grinned almost lecherously. "I know the perfect place..."  
  
Two weeks later...  
  
Gimli stood in line with the other men, and tilted his head back.  
  
"Ahhh, smell those pancakes!"  
  
Gandalf made several lewd comments concerning prostitutes and bottles of syrup.  
  
Aaragorn smirked. "I have a nice big sausage to put between a couple of nice warm pancakes, if you know what I mean."  
  
The men roared with laughter. Samwise appeared at the entrance of the newly established brothel.  
  
"Let the fun begin," he yelled, and cut the ribbon across the doorway.  
  
Behind the scenes...  
  
The Metatron was far too drunk to make pancakes on his own. Frodo sent the Sheriff into the kitchen to help out.  
  
"You're pathetic," the Sheriff told the Metatron, who gave him the finger. "You're not supposed to consume the ingredients."  
  
"You're not supposed to 'inspect' the whores to make sure they're in working order."  
  
"Is that griddle hot enough?"  
  
"Why don't you sit on it and see?"  
  
The Sheriff gritted his teeth and began to pour pancakes. He thought longingly of his zircon encrusted tweezers that Frodo had confiscated a week earlier. Damn that son of a bitch Robin Hood! This was all his fault. The Sheriff contented himself by imagining a scenario that involved himself sneaking in through Robin Hood's window, zircon encrusted tweezers in one hand, and a bucket of plaster in another. Slowly, methodically he would pluck out each and every one of that silky boy's ass hairs. Then, he would take pleasure in promptly plastering Robin Hood's ass shut. See what Maid Marion thought of her husband then, the bitch!  
  
The Metatron distracted the Sheriff's thoughts by softly singing, "Satan can be your friend," in a most jovial voice as he mixed pancake batter. The Sheriff groaned inwardly when he thought of the endless stream of weeks working with this asshole.  
  
Frodo and Sam stood on the balcony and watched clients flock inside.  
  
"Well, you've done it, Mr. Frodo. You've established your own whorehouse."  
  
"This is only the beginning, Sam. I'm thinking of writing my own erotic literature and publishing it. Elves love good erotica."  
  
Somewhere in a distant forest, a time hole opens, and a man in black drops from the sky. Grumbling, he gets to his feet and dusts off his billowing black robes. His long, greasy black hair hangs in his face as he opens a briefcase containing several brochures and magazines. There are also several cards reading: Severus Snape, licensed writer of erotic literature, and Master of Potions.  
  
"I'm going to teach these little dunderheads how to write the most horrific smut on the planet."  
  
~FIN~  
  
A/N: Why is the Sheriff alive when he was killed in the movie, you ask? Because I like him that way. 


	2. The Smut Master

Title: The Smut Master  
  
Author: Ivory Tower  
  
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter characters and concepts. The late Tolkien and his estate own all characters and concepts of Middle Earth. I still do not own the Sheriff of Nottingham or the esteemed Metatron. And, of course, the late, great Frank Zappa owns all rights to the concept of the gorgeous Zircon Encrusted Tweezers.  
  
Frodo was at his desk smoking a cigar and counting today's profits reaped in by his brothel. In the next room, Samwise continued his attempt to convince Rosie to get a part-time job at Mr. Frodo's whorehouse. The Metatron was outside going heavy at the tequila and trying to get the Sheriff to joust. The poor Sheriff just sat under a tree lamenting the loss of his beloved Zircon Encrusted Tweezers. Mr. Frodo had hid them well, the little hobbity bastard-thing! Neither of the two ex-salesmen noticed the dark figure approach the hobbit hole.  
  
Frodo looked up from making next week's schedule. If Sam didn't convince Rosie to start whoring, Eowyn was going to have to double shift it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Faramir wouldn't be very pleased, but if he got too hard up he could always stop by the whorehouse and pay his wife to have sex with him.  
  
"Sam! Sam, get the door!"  
  
"Sure thing, Mr. Frodo."  
  
Samwise Gamgee, decked out in a slick fur coat and a bright green pimp hat with a purple feather, sauntered to the door.  
  
"If it's Legolas, tell him I still haven't seen his cock ring!" shouted Frodo as an afterthought.  
  
The Sheriff happened to overhear this and burst into uproarious laughter. Still laughing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a magnificent mithril cock ring. The Metatron frowned.  
  
"What in hell are you doing with that? It's not as though you'll ever have a use for it." he arrogantly told his co-worker.  
  
"Shut up!" roared the Sheriff, scrambling to his feet. "I challenge you to a joust, you holy bastard!"  
  
Lightening struck.  
  
"No fighting, you two," boomed a female voice from the heavens.  
  
"Stupid twit," muttered the Sheriff, throwing the glorious mithril cock ring in his wrath.  
  
Sam opened the door and did a double take. Either the Sheriff had shaved and lost his color or the Metatron had decided to go Goth.  
  
"Uh..." Sam didn't know quite what to say. Plus, he did not like the way this man was scowling down at him; it was scary.  
  
Reaching into the folds of his pitch black robes, the vampiric man produced a card and silently handed it to Sam. Five seconds later...  
  
"Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo! Come quick! Look at this!"  
  
Samwise charged into the room and collided into the desk, causing Frodo to choke on cigar smoke. Coins flew everywhere.  
  
"Damn it, Sam! This had better be a real emergency," scolded an especially annoyed Frodo.  
  
"It's no emergency, Mr. Frodo. It's glorious! Read this."  
  
Sam shoved the Goth salesman's card into his friend's hand.  
  
"Severus Snape, Master of Potions and Licensed Dealer of Erotica. Is this for real?" Frodo asked anxiously, too afraid to be hopeful lest disappointment overwhelm him.  
  
"It says here that he can teach you to write the most tasteless smut on the planet! Stuff-stuff that'll make the Sheriff blush, even."   
  
Sam had made that last part up but he could not help himself, so eager was he to read some good pornography. Frodo grabbed his pimp cane and headed for the parlor. He halted sharply in the doorway. Where in Middle Earth had this guy come from? He looked half dead. He also looked thoroughly irritated at Rosie's woeful tale of Sam's attempt s to coerce her into whoring.  
  
"*You* can teach me to write volumes of glorious perversion?" inquired a skeptical Frodo, already having his doubts. After all, the man didn't look like someone who dealt in smut; he looked like he dealt in torture and immensely enjoyed doing so.  
  
The sour-looking man's frown increased and he finally spoke.  
  
"Of course I can teach you to write pornography!" he snapped. "All these idiots think I live in a dungeon because I hate them, and I do, but I also have an underground vault filled with volumes of pornographic literature. There is no need for me to come up into the sunshine when my glorious smut surrounds me."  
  
Samwise was very moved by this little speech.  
  
"What must we do to begin?" he eagerly wanted to know.  
  
"Just a moment," interrupted Frodo. "You don't own a pair of Zircon Encrusted Tweezers, do you?"  
  
Snape gave Frodo a menacing glare.  
  
"A pair of what?"  
  
"And you don't argue with invisible entities called 'God', do you?" asked the faithful Sam.  
  
Snape gave them a superior look and said, "With my articulate writing skills and filthy mind, I have no need invisible entities to keep me company."  
  
Frodo was sold.  
  
"Rosie, get the scotch and three glasses," he instructed, motioning Snape and Sam over to the table so they could discuss business.  
  
"I'm not your bitch! I'm Sam's bitch," Rosie informed him in a bitchy tone of voice.  
  
"And Sam is *my* bitch so get the booze," retorted Frodo, puffing his cigar.  
  
Over at the whorehouse, the Metatron paused in making dirty sculptors out of Auntie Wickwack's Chocolate Pancakes.  
  
"Frodo and his bitch-I mean, Sam, haven't been by the whorehouse today. Something is afoot. Get the hell out of there!" exclaimed the Metatron, seizing the Sheriff, who had been literally trying to drown himself in a cauldron of tequila. "You have tainted the tequila!" cried a horrified Metatron, and set to ladling coarse black hairs from the ingredients. "You need to shape up and stop this foolish pining over a garish pair of tweezers. You stole Legolas' mithril cock ring. That should make any man happy."  
  
"It's not the same," grumbled the sulky Sheriff, drawing pictures of various sized breasts on the dirty floor with the toe of his scuffed boot. "Besides, I lost it."  
  
"When?" the Metatron wanted to know.  
  
The Sheriff shrugged and sullenly went back to flipping pancake while thinking of the good old days when he would bully and belittle the villagers.  
  
Meanwhile, at the brothel's best breakfast table, Lord Elrond bit into a pancake and yelled, grabbing his mouth in pain. Moments later, he spat out a glorious mithril...was that a magical size-changing cock ring? What a find! Elrond joyfully pocketed the treasure and continued eating.  
  
Merry and Pippin exchanged looks.  
  
"The pancakes come with prizes now? Come on, Merry, eat up!"  
  
"Waitress, more pancakes!" shouted Meriadoc Brandybuck, shoveling several into his mouth.  
  
Back at the hobbit hole, Frodo Baggins, with a determined chin, put his quill to the parchment and began:  
  
Terrence, the dwarf, had an odd fascination with trees.  
  
"Well, you are certainly no Marquis De Sade," spat Snape. "That is too vague and pathetically dull. Try this." the grouchy Potion Master seized the quill and demonstrated his talent:  
  
Terrence, the lust-filled dwarf, had such a passion for trees the rubbed his nude, oiled body against them three times a day and twice at night. There was nothing that excited young Terrence more than a knothole. Those dark, secretive pleasure holes that-  
  
"Alright! I get the point!" Frodo seized back his quill. "I can do this. I-Sam? Sam! Sam, do you need to be by yourself for a few minutes," Frodo asked of the twitching hobbit who'd been hanging onto Snape's every written word.  
  
"Excuse me," said Sam, stiffly exiting out to the garden.  
  
Rosie's high-pitched squeal shrieked, "Samwise Gamgee! What are you doing to that tree?"  
  
Frodo smirked and continued the story while the dreary professor hovered over him like a dark cloud of the vilest perversion.  
  
"Vary your words!" Snape would abruptly interject in his deep, surprisingly silky voice, or he would say, "Someone like Mrs. Beasley would not have a snapping red pussy! He did *what* with that bottle of rum? Be specific! Orifice-good word usage. I hate elves-leave him out! *Mithril* cock rings? Your perversion disgusts me, Baggins. There is hope for you yet."  
  
Frodo was just putting the finishing touches to his filth-ridden masterpiece when the door flew open. The Metatron and the Sheriff swooped into the hobbit hole.  
  
"What goes on here?" demanded the Metatron.  
  
"Silence, you winged freak! I am teaching." replied the ever jollyless Snape.  
  
"Damn you!" shouted the drunken Sheriff and unsheathed his sword. He mad to run at Frodo's perverted professor and was promptly blasted against the wall by Snape's wand.  
  
Snape then faced the angel who drew himself up proudly and proclaimed, "I am the Metatron! The voice of the one true God and connoisseur of tequila! Your gothic morbidia is not welcome here so leave, you Robert Smith groupie."   
  
The Metatron peered over Frodo's shoulder to see what the little hobbit was up to.  
  
"That is Smut Master Snape to you. Middle Earth needs more than alcoholic pancakes and cheap whores," stated Smut Master Snape righteously.  
  
The Sheriff sat up.  
  
"It needs sexual torture devices and Zircon Encrusted Tweezers for all!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Shut up!" spat both the Metatron and Snape.  
  
"Finished!" cried Frodo and leaned back in his chair, beaming with pride.  
  
"One moment," said Snape to the angel. With a flick of his wand, Snape multiplied Frodo's story many times over. Another incantation summoned forth a wind that swept up the parchment and distributed the copies all across the fair land.  
  
The Metatron shook his head.  
  
"Now the place will be crawling with tree rapists," he grumbled.   
  
The Sheriff only grinned. Snape rolled his eyes and thought, 'Merlin, what a derelict.'  
  
One week later...  
  
"...and then, Lila, the lovely handmaiden, discovered the bliss of Bimby's magical dildo for herself," concluded the Metatron in his clear, distinctive voice.  
  
Applause filled the pancake hall/whorehouse. Gandalf clapped particularly loud this time.  
  
"That's the best one yet!" exclaimed Bilbo Baggins, adding a generous amount of butter to his pancakes.  
  
Aragorn nodded in agreement.  
  
"Yes," said Galadriel, "this one surpasses even 'Lester the Troll's Red Light Special'".  
  
"And the Metatron is such a natural for reading such...perversion," said Glorfindel, eyeing the sizzling sausage on Celeborn's plate.  
  
Frodo and Samwise watched from the second floor balcony.  
  
"Sam, we've struck gold."  
  
"Aye, Mr. Frodo. We're booked until the next technological dawn. And you know, I think the Metatron secretly enjoys the extra attention. I mean, no one listens to a damn thing he says any other time."  
  
"To true, Samwise. How does Rosie like the afternoon shift?"  
  
"Better than expected. I think we might be having some trouble in the kitchen, though. That Severe Snaps wizard wasn't too keen about staying on, but his employer, Albus Dumbledore, thought it would be a mind-enriching experience for him."  
  
"These things take time, Sam."  
  
In the kitchen, things were anything but placid.  
  
"Will you shut that foul mouth of yours before I shove that spatula up your ass? I do not give a damn how the Metatron mixed the accused pancakes. And I do not care that you almost had sexual relations with Maid Marion. 'Almost' carries no weight." snarled Snape.  
  
"Bloody Christ! You're the most uptight bastard I've ever met. You need to take next week's paycheck and spend it over here with Eowyn or Arwen. Arwen does this thing with her tongue that-"  
  
"Silence or I am going to vomit into this batter! No amount of money should coerce any woman into sleeping with you. I cannot believe they allow you to handle the food!" spat Snape.  
  
"Well you're no prize yourself. I swear we'd cut costs in half if I scraped the pan across your greasy head before frying the eggs, you vampiric twit!" retorted the Sheriff.  
  
"I *hate* you," stated Snape emphatically, carefully pouring tequila into the chocolate batter.  
  
The Sheriff grinned.  
  
"I'll bet Harry Potter gets more women in a week than you have in a-"  
  
A gorgeous row broke out between Sheriff and Potions Master.  
  
"I'll cut you heart out with a spoon!" yelled the Sheriff as he bitch slapped Professor Snape; all those weeks of pent up frustration over his Zircon Encrusted Tweezers taking over.  
  
Unable to reach for his wand, Snape settled for whacking the Sheriff with the ladle while threatening to curse him into oblivion.  
  
In the midst of the pandemonium, the Metatron descended into the room from the heavens. He was having a good day, the Metatron was. God was so pleased with the angel's work she'd rewarded him with a very nice leather trench coat. The Metatron stepped over the fighting men and poured himself a shot of tequila. Then, Samwise ran into the kitchen.  
  
"What are you doing? We have hungry customers!" he yelled.  
  
The Metatron merely shrugged.  
  
"This is no longer my department. Do you like my trench coat? Look, I can turn up the collar for a more profound-"  
  
Just then, Snape lost control of the ladle and it went flying. Eventually, it careened into the Metatron's mouth and knocked him to the floor.  
  
The bruised and bloodied Sheriff sat up and began to laugh manically while rudely pointing at the angel's misfortune. Snape himself smirked, secretly pleased to have knocked the high and mighty Metatron off his esteemed soap box and onto the dirty kitchen floor.  
  
"My sacred trench coat has been soiled by the pestilence of this uncleanly kitchen!" shouted the Metatron, hurrying to his feet and hastily trying to wipe dirt and flour from his prized leather trench coat.  
  
"Put a sock in it, you righteous twit," replied the Sheriff.  
  
"Yes," said Snape silkily, "do shut up."  
  
"Infidels!" hissed the Metatron, spreading his wings their full width to emphasize his wrath. "You have besmirched the holiest of my most esteemed trench coats! Now you must pay for this blasphemy. Remember, this will hurt the two of you much worse than it will hurt me."  
  
"No! No! Whatever you're gonna do, don't do it!" begged Samwise. "Mr. Frodo, the Metatron's gone mad! Help!"  
  
~FIN~  
  
Be sure to tune in for the next exciting chapter entitled: "Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen" or "We Put the Broth in Brothel". 


End file.
